


There's Bound to Be a Ghost at the Back of Your Closet

by windsroad



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9068068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsroad/pseuds/windsroad
Summary: Character studies / backstory explorations for each member of Vox Machina. Plus a few extra people!





	1. Let It All Fill with Smoke

Percival’s memories of that night came in flashes.

The Briarwoods, soaked and cold from the storm, let in to dry and eat and take refuge. Dinner had been jolly and full of laughter. Percy went to bed that night content, with the faint idea of a new invention in his mind. He had a notion that he could make a small handheld cannon, propelling a bit of metal over long distances using controlled explosions within a chamber. The measurements would need to be precise. But what need did he have for a thing like that?

Flash. His door slammed open, a fist in his hair tugging him up and out of bed. He pushed back, weak from sleep— _what the devil did they think they were doing?_ —before a punch across the face knocked him out.

Flash. He was chained in the dungeons. He did not see a single other soul from his family. He spent who knows how long there, in the company of villains. A woman with dark hair visited him often, smiling and clever and vicious. Scars later told him a story he couldn’t quite remember.

Flash. Cassandra, the brave girl, always acting older than she was. She picked a lock—who had taught her to do that?—and ushered him through a passage and down a tunnel.

Flash. Percival stumbled and looked behind him. His sister, baby Cassandra, fell forward on her knees as arrows pierced her chest and spattered dark red blood on the white snow. He kept running.

Flash. He was washed up on a river bank, freezing cold with the smell of fish in the air. A man in rubber shoes with rough hands squinted at him and yelled before Percy blacked out again.

Here his memories went steady, but hazy. In a daze he spent two years working his way south, as far from Whitestone as he could manage.

Each night a voice spoke to him. A billowing cloud of smoke wrapped in shadows and nightmares whispered to him in his sleep. It showed him his family members, dead. His parents pale and lifeless, faces matching the snow around them. His siblings’ bodies left in unceremonious heaps. It reminded him of his small cannon, showed him images of those who had wronged him. “VENGEANCE,” its voice rasped. “WOULD YOU LIKE TO MAKE A DEAL?”

Each time, Percival would wake, sweating and desperate, his voice raw from screaming. He reminded himself—tried to remind himself—that he had only seen Cassandra fall. His other family members could still be out there, surely.

But the voice nagged him. One day, he woke with his mind clear, blueprints behind his eyes. Conviction had taken him.

Another day, five years hence, Percy of Vox Machina would stand in front of his nemesis, his foil, and proclaim the unthinkable. “I forgive you,” he would say. The gulf between the previous Percy and this one was wide, but it was not insurmountable. One day, Percival would find it in himself to become the person he wished he could be, and at last, at some level, be at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first one is Percy! I fact checked myself and realize I rearranged the order/timing of some things. Please forgive me.
> 
> Also, I'm challenging myself to make all the titles Mountain Goats references... wish me Iuck.


	2. Death Came Calling Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Screw Vax'ildan's dad, and screw that dragon. Vax's gonna make the world a better place.

Vax’ildan—just Vax’ildan, fuck that man and his surname—left Syngorn with his sister in the middle of the night with packs of stolen equipment and a willingness to thrive on their own to spite their father. He was a human like his mother, he told himself, fiercely wiping away tears where his sister couldn’t see. He burned inside from the tips of his toes to the ends of his half-elf ears.

Vax prowled the city streets while his sister prowled the forests. He pickpocketed and burgled his way into the notice of the Clasp, who were quite willing to take out a hit on a young girl. After dirtying his hands to protect his sister, Vax came home to their camp with a fresh brand and a feeling of shame the same day his sister returned with a bear cub and a tearful eye. He didn’t ask any questions. Neither did she.

 

After years spent living on their own, the twins decided to return to their childhood home, only to find a smoking ruin. Their home was reduced to flames, their mother gone, the only explanation a dragon attack with no leads.

Fuck their father. _Fuck_ that man. If they’d never been sent away, they might have been there. Maybe Vax could have done something. Maybe he couldn’t fight a dragon, but they could have gotten everyone—his mother, at least, dear _gods_ , his mother—out of the town and to safety. But guilt nagged him. If they’d come back sooner...

Fuck that dragon, too. One day, he would be able to kill a dragon. One day.

But he had more immediate concerns. He’d gone from village life to bastard half-elf son in an elven city to, officially, no home at all. He had his sister, and Vax depended on her as much as Vex depended on him. They leaned into one another, clinging to each other as the only piece of home they had left.

And as the two gained new friends, new allies, a different kind of family, the twins still remained one unit. Vax, ever disinterested in the gods, slowly found himself drawn to Sarenrae through the kindness of a good friend.

In the back of Vax’ildan’s mind he had the idea, almost as a matter of fact, that he would do anything for Vex’ahlia. She was the first, most important person in his life. If he had to die for his sister to go on, by all the gods, he would do it.

 

And did he ever try! Instead Vax found himself shackled to a dark goddess of death and the light of Sarenrae’s redemption further from him than ever—he watched his teammate walk in the light while he was swallowed further and further into the darkness.

But Vax’ildan had always been able to play the hand he was dealt. If the Raven Queen wasn’t Sarenrae, he would commit himself to her and use that power to protect his friends—his family—and bring about the good he wanted to see in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone who read the last chapter, omg. I only started writing fanfic over the summer, and that response in one day kind of blew me away!


	3. God Watches Over Children and She Cares for Fools in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pike's heart ached all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Pike's chapter! This one contains a good deal more spoilers than the others! Probably best not to read any of this unless you're caught up, honestly.

Pike’s heart ached sometimes, but it wasn’t a problem.

Pike’s heart ached all the time. It ached for her great-great-grandfather Wilhand, it ached for Grog, it ached for her friends—her family. It ached for…

Pike’s heart ached in a good way, a far too full way. 

 

Jurazel, the treachery demon, pushed down on Vox Machina with its razor sharp pincers, enormous horns, gigantic maw. It glistened in the light cast through the holes shot through the ceiling.

But Pike didn’t watch the demon. Pike watched her friends as they took hit after hit, bloody and hurting. Her heart ached then, too. She couldn’t let a single one of them fall, had to heal them, had to keep them safe. She dove to heal Grog, tossed a hurried prayer up to Sarenrae that she would see them through, and didn’t see the giant pincer come down upon her. Pike hardly registered its razor edge on her abdomen, and soon saw nothing at all.

 

You can come back from death, with the dedication and love of good friends, but it changes you. Pike didn’t ever want to be taken away from her friends like that again. Ironically, it meant she had to leave them for a time—she needed to become stronger, strong enough that she could worry about her friends without worrying about herself.

Still, many of her friends had fallen since then, and she wasn’t always there to help.

Grog, fighting K’Varn. She brought him back in the midst of battle.

Vex, in the Raven Queen champion’s tomb. Pike hadn’t been there to help.

Grog, again, from that terrible sword. She couldn’t prevent it, couldn’t break Grog from that sword even though she’d seen something was wrong. But she’d been there, and they brought him back, then, too.

Tiberius, who’d left and died defending his home in Draconia.

Percy, in the fight with Dr. Ripley. This time, Pike had prepared ahead of time. She’d given him a necklace to bring him back if something went wrong, but it hadn’t been enough. Pike’s heart wrenched as she felt the magic in the necklace take and knew something had happened. Sooner rather than later, her friends returned with Percy’s cold, unmoving body in tow. But Percy came back, and it was only through reassurance from him that she didn’t feel she’d failed.

 

Pike’s heart ached, when she couldn’t be there for her friends and worried whether they’d be okay. But her heart also ached when she was there with them, when they laughed about a comically terrible portrait by a disguised archfey, or when she assisted Grog with a feat of strength, or when she downed two shots of the strongest alcohol there was.

Bad times would come, and bad times would pass. But as long as her family was there, the aching would never be too much. She could ask Sarenrae for healing, for ferocity in battle, for aid in a dragon attack, but she could also thank Sarenrae for what she’d found along the way.


	4. I Held onto You with a Desperate Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grog didn't know a lot, but he knew cruelty when he saw it.

Grog was a little simple. He couldn’t read or write and he didn’t know any fancy words or numbers. He wasn’t even the biggest or strongest, though he was _quite_ the master of colors and shapes. He was a little wild, and left mostly to his own devices, but he knew cruelty when he saw it.

That’s probably why he couldn’t just stand by when he saw that little man getting beat up by his uncle and the rest of the herd. Grog could take punishment like that, but that little gnome… he was so… _old_. And innocent. But mostly old. He was maybe half Grog’s height—probably smaller—covered in wrinkles, had a balding head, and dressed in simple robes. And he was yelling.

The group of them sauntered back to camp, the little gnome dangling from his uncle’s hand by the wrist. Kevdak jerked the gnome a foot higher in the air and a terrible _snap_ came from the old gnome’s wrist and as he yelped.

“You think you can come onto our turf, little man?”

The old gnome yelped again. “Please—I mean no harm, I was just passing through—”

Grog was a creature of instinct. In that moment, he found a strength of character inside himself and realized he couldn’t stand by and watch the herd kill that gnome. Before he recognized what he was doing, Grog found himself lunging at his uncle, yelling for them to stop, fighting desperately to get each of them away from the small man.

They were none too happy with the response. The herd turned on him and it was like the world was in slow motion; Grog turned his pounding head to the side to see his father standing, watching, not moving one inch to help.

It was sometimes easier to recognize cruelty when you saw it than when you felt it. As Grog blacked out, he thought to himself that he shouldn’t be surprised at this—he should have expected it. He’d received beatings before, though none to this degree. Maybe he deserved it. He had, after all, defied the herd. But he hoped that old gnome had gotten away.

 

When Grog woke, hovering over him was the kindest face he’d ever seen. He’d never seen someone cast such a worried look in his direction before. Her face practically glowed with kindness (or maybe it was the sun - it lit her from behind, her pale hair almost on fire with it). She was a gnome too, but with her face filling up his entire vision, she looked like a giant.

Grog didn’t know much about the gods—another in a list of things he didn’t know much about—but felt if anyone or anything was sent by the gods, it had to be her.

The gnome moved out of his vision. “Grandpa Wilhand!” her soft voice called. “He’s awake!”

She moved back over him again, looking him in the face, her head once again glowing. “Are you okay?”

Grog thought that yes, maybe he was.


	5. Some Things You Do for Money and Some You Do for Love, Love, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vex'ahlia can't ever become like Saundor. How do you become a better person?

Vex’ahlia put on a brave face, but underneath, she was broken.

Syldor was ashamed of her and Vax'ildan. The elves of Syngorn gossiped. They were embarrassments, bastards, poor and uncultured. It had always bothered Vex more than it had her brother. When she walked among them, she felt their eyes on her, wanted to crawl out of her own skin so they would stop judging her.

They left Syngorn, one night when they’d finally had enough. In the woods away from prying eyes, Vex finally felt at peace. But the peace didn’t last… She killed those poachers—her kidnappers and assailants. It was to protect herself, to protect another life, but a voice inside jeered  _ killer. _

Vex’ahlia stood beside her brother and stared at the charred husk of their old home. While Vax got angry, Vex cried. While Vax threw himself into distractions, Vex studied. She would learn every last thing about dragons there was to know. If she ever saw the dragon that did this again, so help her… 

Saundor, unnatural corrupter and cancerous tumor of the Feywild, looked down at Vex’ahlia and said they were alike. He read her heart and saw all the hidden things she didn’t want anyone to see—things she’d never told anyone, even her brother. His words twisted like a dagger in her heart. And while her friends reassured her they weren’t anything alike, Vex couldn’t help but worry that maybe Saundor was right.

Vex had nightmares: elves laughing, a bloody dagger, the smell of burning buildings. Saundor’s face, twisted and wrong, asking for her heart.

How did you become a good person? What did it mean? What did it take?

 

They were all broken, in their own special ways. Forgiveness, Vex discovered, is what it took to heal. You had to forgive others. You had to forgive yourself.

But forgiveness was hard. If it were any easier, it wouldn’t mean anything. You had to forgive to grow, and you had to forgive to expect any in return. Vex’ahlia wasn’t perfect: she had killed those poachers, she had stolen that broom, she had cheated a thousand merchants of their money. She needed forgiveness too.

When Vex died, she didn’t even think to blame Percy. She forgave him immediately. But forgiving people you loved was easy.

Forgiving people you hated was hard. Harder still was to stop hating them. She stared up at Thordak, that flying red emissary of death, and thought of the destruction of her home, the death of her mother. She watched Raishan and thought of Keyleth’s family. 

The difference was—the fighting couldn’t be for herself, to satisfy her own vengeful desires. It had to be about everyone else: protecting her loved ones, protecting  _ everyone _ , because it mattered.

If Vex was going to fight, it couldn’t be about revenge or money. It had to be about love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Vex's chapter!  
> They may not *technically* be members of Vox Machina, but I was thinking of doing chapters for Zahra and Kashaw after I'm done with regular VM!


	6. Let’s Have a Little Music on this Hazy Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scanlan wonders if his own relationship with his father - or lack thereof - has repeated in Kaylie.

Kaylie clutched a sword in her hand, pointed it towards Scanlan’s chest. A frown creased her forehead, her angry mouth taut and bitter. “You have _no_ boundaries. You take what you like and keep walking on. You trick folk. Now draw your blade,” she challenged.

 

Scanlan Shorthalt had always been a charmer. He needed to be, to coax extra coin from his audiences in order to support his mother—and he wouldn’t admit to it, but after she died, he had the vague sense that there was little meaning to what happened in this world.

When he joined Dr. Dranzel’s Spectacular Traveling Troupe, seeing little else there was to do with his mother gone, Scanlan perfected his charm into a dangerous weapon. He became able to cajole whatever he needed out of most anyone he came across.

Scanlan’s interest, however, was in the people. He loved the women. And the men. And everyone else. Oh, and how he loved to love them. Charm was quite effective in this regard, and it took his mind off his troubles and the terrifying pointlessness of the world.

It was all good, all fun, a laugh. He told a few embellished tales of his greatness, they had a good time, and parted amicably, at least on his part. He didn’t stick around long enough to hear from the other end. He lied well enough and made himself scarce quickly enough to ensure no fathers with cudgels or aunts with hat pins came after him.

Until now.

As Kaylie spoke, Scanlan’s heart sank.

He saw his mother, sitting quietly at their kitchen table, alone, gazing out the window. Her face when Scanlan asked about his father.

Scanlan had, quite gleefully, slept his way across Tal’Dorei, with no regard for the consequences. Was he just like his own non-existent father?

Had Kaylie fantasized about her own father before her heart turned bitter, wondering why he hadn't cared enough to be there?

Had Kaylie withstood the sneers and jeers of townsfolk, whispering _bastard_ when she turned her back?

 

Scanlan unbuttoned his shirt and held it open, chest exposed, and closed his eyes. “Stab me right here if you’d like, and I will not resist. You’ve earned it; take me.”

He felt a weak, sharp point in his chest, before the sword clattered to the ground. He opened his eyes, dazed, while his daughter rushed forward into a hug. “Why… why can’t I do it?” she said, tears running off her face and onto his back. “All the years building up to this and I have the chance and I can’t do it.”

He had always been flippant with his life. But in that moment, Scanlan knew two things:

  1. He had to protect his daughter.
  2. To do that, he couldn’t die.



And suddenly, his whole life changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scanlan's chapter! After this most recent episode, I do not even know what to do with that man. Prayer circle for Scanlan.  
> (Also, there's a Howl's Moving Castle reference in here!)


	7. Maybe Everything that Falls Down Eventually Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The figure stalks around his table and watches the shitshow go down.

The darkly cloaked figure paced around his table. His favorite playthings stood in the world of his own creation, arguing over plans, a bard and his thievery, a talking skull.

What should he do with them next? Finally they seemed to have a bit of peace, their battles won, friends protected, a home to call their own.

But they couldn’t have that for long. Where would the fun in that be?

The figure examined all of the plans he had for them, like a child in a toy store—he hadn’t gotten to use this one yet, but was this the time for it?

The figure allowed his favorites a certain amount of agency he hadn’t given to others. They could chose what they did and how they did it, with only moderate pushing from outside forces. He could encourage them to do one thing or go somewhere else, but their decisions were always up to them. Sometimes he could anticipate what they would do well enough that some actions were almost inevitable—but sometimes he could not. Who could expect flying cows?

His favorites—Vox Machina, they called themselves, or was it the SHITs?—were supposed to attend a meeting soon. Ah, political intrigue. The figure coaxed Emon’s sovereign, one of the many toys he did not give as much free movement too, into calling a meeting with his council and the prominent members of the city where he would resign his throne. Not that it mattered. There were more interesting things going on than that, so the sovereign would not last much longer anyway.

 

The moment came. Everyone important gathered in one place. This was the time to strike.

Dragons swooped down upon the gathering. They ravaged. Dozens fell from one blow. Dragons were a favorite of his. He hardly ever got to use them: pushed to action too often, and his favorites might not survive, and then where would he be?

It was a small piece of his heart that died along with each and every one of them. To build something up and then destroy it was a strange sensation, like a beautiful piece of art that is fleeting through your own design. He watched as his favorites’ faces turned to horror, fleeing and sheltering themselves from the destruction the dragons had left in their wake.

It hurt him to see them like this, but hardship would be the facilitator of larger growth. Well, it hurt, but it was enjoyable as well—the thrill of destruction was incomparable.

The figure stepped back from his table and watched the situation play out. His favorites, his precious playthings, would be pushed to the edge of their capability, and it would be up to them whether they persevered or fell apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post this chapter last, but given recent events, decided to post it now.  
> Not that I actually think Matthew Mercer is this malicious... inspiration was taken from Them in DWJ's the Homeward Bounders, who play with the multiverse like it's a tabletop game.


	8. Coming up through the Cracks, Pale Green Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keyleth's never been good at dealing with loss, but she's got a long time to learn.

Sometimes Keyleth wanted to fight the Raven Queen herself.

She’d tried to temper her anger after receiving advice from Grog, of all people, warning her not to do anything to endanger her family even if Raishan _was_ a horrible bitch. But the Raven Queen was threatening Keyleth’s heart, her soul, and she had never been good at dealing with loss.

 

As a child, Keyleth had hoped her mother was alive, that her mother might return to lead the tribe and that this cup might be passed from her. She couldn’t let the idea go; while her father shook his head sadly Keyleth dreamed of her mother walking into Zephrah tired but happy to be home. Keyleth would recognize her instantly, run to her, never have to spend another day in training.

As an adult, Keyleth had hoped her mother was dead. She hoped her mother had died valiantly trying to complete her Aramente and return to Zephrah. It sounded cruel, but if she was alive, what kind of mother did that make her? What kind of daughter did that make Keyleth?

She wasn’t sure she’d ever come to terms with it, but maybe this was the kind of feeling that Keyleth would have to hold onto. Maybe death was better than a thousand years of cold, chilling undeath. Maybe death was a part of life, the event we all inevitably march towards, some sooner than others.

 

It didn’t take a thousand years to lose someone she loved. When Vax’ildan walked into their camp in the Feywild, Keyleth thought for sure it was a cruel trick—and when she knew the Raven Queen had done it, she thought it was even crueler. She had Vax’ildan back, but not for long. Cold to the touch, Vax walked with a purpose greater and with more weight than any of them could understand. And when that purpose was over, so was Vax.

Keyleth had been worried that her expanded lifespan would cause her to outlive everyone she knew. But the thousand years didn’t hurt anymore. Vax was going to be gone within her lifetime either way. The difference between a hundred years without Vax and a thousand seemed unimaginable to her. Both might as well be infinity.

Vox Machina would be with her for a time, some longer than others.

 

Keyleth would lead her people and teach the young and protect the weak. She would see generations come and go, seasons pass, births and deaths and new life once again. Death was a part of life.

One day, Keyleth would tell the story of _Yes, yes I once knew Vox Machina_. She would guide a new generation of heroes who would rise out of adversity to save Exandria, like flowers growing up out of the dry, cracked ground.

She wasn’t sure she would ever come to terms with it, but she could shoulder the burden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time! I wrote a chapter for Keyleth just before the final part of her Aramente, but waited too long to post it and it stopped being relevant... so I trashed the chapter and now I've finally written a new one. Ah, well!


	9. There Was No Money; It Was Money that You Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taryon's relationship with his father is less than pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting the note in the beginning of this one for a warning for some depictions of abuse. It's about Taryon's father, after all. I had a really hard time putting the conclusion of Tary's conversation with his father in any kind of... good light. Yeesh.

A memory held fast in Taryon’s mind. It wasn’t particularly extraordinary, just one example of a regular occurrence.

He was playing with his sister, Maryanne, in their nursery. He and his sister did not get along well, but when you were the only two children in a vast home you learn to do things together either way.

There was the slam of a door, the pounding of feet. “Maryanne!” their father yelled. “Come here, it’s time to learn the business!”

They both froze like deer assessing danger. Maryanne perked up, a bit of fear in her eyes.

The footsteps approached, and the door swung open. “Maryanne, I said come _here_ ,” said their father. He was tall and intimidating as he lifted Maryanne just under the armpit and walked her out of the room.

Maryanne cast another look back at her brother. Taryon remained frozen.

Their father had decided from a young age that Taryon was not going to inherit the business. Maryanne had the mettle, the ruthlessness. Not Taryon. Sometimes, Taryon wondered if their father had made Maryanne that way.

Taryon was glad it wasn’t him. He was glad it was his sister instead of him, and he hated that.

 

Howaardt Darrington had done many bad things. He had thrown out Tary’s teacher and confined Tary to his rooms; he had made deals with shady characters and done endless things for money. He had been cruel and unrelenting and cold as long as Tary had known him.

So when Howaardt Darrington told Taryon that he would have to marry a woman he had never met, that Tary would never love, Tary wasn’t sure where to place that. Was that worse than making deals with the Myriad, or better? Worse than throwing out Tary’s teacher? Better than his treatment of Maryanne?

Was it an acceptable request? Tary didn’t know. He didn’t know what was okay for fathers to request of their sons. He hardly spoke to his father. Tary was an inch from accepting before his friends erupted into protests, and he reconsidered.

 

Terror racked through Tary’s body at the mere idea of standing up to his father, but Taryon decided to find a third option. He would not let his family fall apart—he had to help his mother at least—but he would not accept a loveless marriage.

When Tary stood before his father and presented his offer—the only one Howaardt was going to get from Tary—he saw his sister being dragged away, he saw the marks on his mother’s arms, he saw the back of Lawrence leaving as he watched from his upstairs window.

His father wanted money, but Taryon was going to give them a family.


	10. If You Really Want to Conjure up a Ghost…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Zahra escapes her terrible family, something saves her.

Zahra had to keep going until she got away. She kept running through the tunnel, slightly curving upwards towards the surface. Or so she hoped, it’s not that she’d ever seen it. She hoped her cousin could get away, but she wasn’t going to spend the time to make sure.

Some said that their family was like this because of blood—that fiendish line that made them what they were. But Zahra knew that wasn’t the case. Her father was a bastard, plain and simple. The lot of them.

Except Lillith. But sometimes, you had to help yourself before you could help others.

Zahra finally made her way to the surface. She elbowed into the shallow layer of sod that covered up the hidden exit until it crumbled and cast a soft blue light into the cavern. She crawled up and out of the cave and unto the grass—by the gods, grass, was it soft—and inched along until her feet no longer dangled into the passageway.

The ground was _so_ soft, so inviting. Nothing like the cage she had lived in. No iron bars to rest her head, just soft, pillowy soil. No cramped spaces she could barely fit her tail into. Just wide open ground.

Zahra’s father was dead, now. It was early in the night. The family was surely busying themselves with that. She would have time to just rest her head, surely…

 

Zahra woke up with a jolt. Her face was pressed into the damp grass. It was still dark, so she couldn’t have slept through the whole night. And she heard voices.

“The tunnel came up just over there, she _must_ be somewhere nearby,” said a familiar voice. One of her cousins.

“It’s an open field, where could she have gone?” responded another.

Zahra held her breath.

“Maybe she got away, into a town, or forest, or something,” said the first. “ _Drat_. We’ll have to go after her before she tells anyone.”

And inexplicably, Zahra heard their footsteps move away.

How could that be possible? Zahra had barely moved two feet away from the hole in the ground she’d fought her way out of. She rolled herself over to look up into the sky and wonder what had just happened.

The moon stared back down at her.

Since she’d fallen asleep it had risen far up in the sky. It was full, its blue light so strong anyone would be able to see their surroundings clearly, even in the dead of night, even without darkvision.

It sung to her.

The moon sung like a choir of angels, like Zahra with compassion Zahra didn’t know anyone could bestow. This moon before her had protected her, of that she was sure.

She would pledge her life to that moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last two chapters are about Zahra and Kashaw! They're my favorite guests.


	11. ...Cultivate a Space for the Things that Hurt You Most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a corner of Kashaw's mind that's dedicated to Vesh - she's always there, like a shadow.

Kashaw Vesh was not a man of many words: or rather, not a man of many good words. You could say he was sincere, entirely artless and without guile, but you could also call him tactless.

His life did not encourage tact. When you’d seen what Kashaw had seen, you had to face it head on, see it for what it was, or it would eat you up inside—you’d bleed out from a hundred tiny little cuts on your soul, slowly, slowly, until it was too much to bare.

That doesn’t mean he went around _parading_ it. When someone asked, he told them. If they didn’t, he kept his mouth shut.

Vesh wasn’t pleasant. Well, she was a bitch. She was like a tiny sour spot in his mind or heart or soul. Kashaw would sometimes forget, wrapped up in some business and blissfully not think about her. But he was stupid and would say to himself _gee, I wonder if it still sucks that bad_ and he would think about it and then there she was. Like a shadow hanging over his life, like a bad tooth. Yeah, she was still there; yeah, it still sucked.

 

Kashaw Vesh was not a man of many friends. Kashaw Vesh was not a man of any family, period. Vesh had seen to that. She had taken his family, his childhood, his future, his peace of mind.

But this half-elf girl… she was so… earnest. Like the shadows of the world hadn’t touched her yet—or if they had, she hadn’t let them _get_ to her yet. But she was tough, too, and capable. She asked him about himself. He told her the facts, bluntly, as he had come to see them. And her face turned so red that her freckles blended in. She was concerned, and she was sorry she had brought it up, but she didn’t run away.

It had been a while since Kashaw had remembered his normal wasn’t the same as everybody else’s. It had been a while since he had thought about ordinary lives, people who live and work and get married and live happily. It had been a while since he had thought about what he was missing—because that was something he had thought better left unexplored.

It was a revelation to him. Gods, some people were _happy_. He’d be damned if he didn’t try to get a little bit of that happiness with the time he had—though he might be damned anyway. There were simple pleasures one could enjoy. A good joke, a good drink, the smile on the face of a nice girl who made his heart skip a beat and picture a different life.

As it came time for them to part, Kashaw thought he might be in for a change. And he felt so grateful to this girl for what he had realized—he felt a light swell up in his chest, filling up all the little dark corners where Vesh liked to hide, and he had to let it out.

So he kissed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! It's all finished! I hope you liked it!


End file.
